In Saecula Saeculorum
by The Readers Muse
Summary: Lost love? Missed chances? Death? You name it. In the end it all boils down to the same god damned conclusion. Love is like taking an AK-47 to the chest from your best friend and only one of you living to tell about it. Turning your life into an uneven jig-saw of pain and guilt that eventually takes on a life of its own.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This story is meant to fit in some point during the winter when they were going from house to house. Or even at some point in the future, the timing is subjective. It focuses on how Daryl views the concepts of "love" and "forever." – This story originally came out of a snippet of text I wrote for _Shipperwolf_ on tumblr that eventually took on a life of its own.

**Warnings:** Contains minor season three spoilers, as well as references to Daryl and Merle's past. This story will have clear references to the following: child abuse, child neglect, domestic violence, adult language and mature content. *****Please be aware that this story contains detailed allusions to child abuse, childhood trauma and parental death. This may not be everyone's cup of tea. Please read accordingly.

**In Saecula Saeculorum**

_**Chapter One**_

The idea of forever was a pretty laughable concept these days. Something which, in his opinion, was pretty rich considering that back when the world had still been in one piece, twenty-four hour marriages and shot gun divorces were about as close as most people got to the definition. After all, it's pretty hard to take the whole concept of 'love' or worse 'eternity' seriously when you had husbands walkin' out on their missuses and bottle-blond gold diggers counting the platinum in their old man's teeth as they slept.

_Love? Give him a fuckin' break already._

It was a tricky thing these days, make no mistake. And that was if such a thing even existed in the first place. Love or the closest thing to it was either impossible to find or impossible to keep. He knows because he's seen it. He's seen how it breaks you down. How it takes you apart piece by piece until there's nothing left - reshaping you into something harder, into something less malleable and forgiving.

The truth is that love makes you weak.

Lost love? Missed chances? Death? You name it. In the end it all boils down to the same god damned conclusion. Love is like taking an AK-47 to the chest from your best friend and only one of you living to tell about it. Turning your life into an uneven jig-saw of pain and guilt that eventually takes on a life of its own. Leaving you purposeless and weak as the very word becomes synonymous with a whole slew of other four lettered words that you're only too happy to say out loud.

Now he wasn't talking about the kind of love that a mother has for her children, or that a friend has for a friend. He understood that kind of bond. Nah, he was talking about the can't eat, can't sleep, head over heels, grow old and fat together kind of love.

Come to think of it, it was probably the kind of feeling that Merle would have slapped him _stupid_ for even _thinkin' _about.

In reality he wasn't sure what to make of it. After all, it wasn't like the kind of love that was portrayed in the fairy tales his Mama used to read him when he was young. In reality, love, or at least the closest thing to it, was messy and complicated. And in his experience, it either didn't last or, when push came to shove, was conditional rather than unconditional – unlike what everyone and their maiden aunt said.

Reality, as they say, is a bitch.

He'd never known anything in his life to last. Not the people, the money, or the scenery. Life is change. Whether you like it or not, that's simply the way of things. So why would love be any different? Before the virus the only love he'd had in his life had been reserved for his Mama. And even then it was a childish, devoted kind of love, the kind that came in the form of butterfly kisses and skin that smelled like sunflowers and lavender.

It was the kind of love that put pictures on the fridge and turned the couch into a makeshift dragon's den. Transforming the living room into an imaginary landscape complete with a damsel in distress and an evil fire breathing creature that lurked somewhere in between the wall and the arm rest. The heroic knight, complete with a plastic sword and a dented hockey helmet, on point for some unseen foe as he scrambled up the side of the sofa, scaring the shit out of the cat, and proceeded to liberate the 'princess' as his Mama nearly keeled over laughing.

But all that had died the day they'd lost her. Burning up with the house and his old life like dry timber in front of a forest fire. After that he'd simply loved the memory. He'd created entire worlds inside his head that involved his Mama still being alive. Melding fantasy and wishful thinking together with reality when their old man started hitting the bottle and laying hands on Merle.

He escaped there when the shouting started. Facing his problems with all the willful stubbornness of a boy desperate enough to wish things were different, but jaded enough to know that all the hoping and praying in the world wouldn't do jack shit. Nothing could bring her back. Not him, not God, and certainly not any fancy magic bean that the good guys could always count on to appear when things got rough.

But that had never stopped him from hoping. …Only now he knew better.

Sometimes he'd pretended that his Mama was reading to him, pressing his hands over his ears to block the sounds as he stared up at the ceiling and mouthed the words to Peter Pan and the Hungry Caterpillar. Other times it was something simple, something like her taking him to the park after lunch or making him do his chores - something that could be easily imagined and innocently hidden.

But sometimes it went too far.

Like the time he'd climbed out his bedroom window in the middle of one of Merle and Pa's screaming matches. Scrambling down the drain pipe to the unmistakable clink of their old man undoing his belt, the sound growing stark and terrible as Merle suddenly fell silent. He was barely seven years old when he'd pointed his feet towards the forest and hadn't looked back. Wandering barefoot through the brush as curiosity and excitement had eventually overcome that of fear.

And as he'd sunk his feet into the dusty, Georgian clay, he'd pretended that she'd been right there beside him, singing and laughing as the day grew dark and he realized he had no idea where he was. It was Merle that had eventually found him, curled up under an old oak tree in the middle of nowhere a few hours after twilight. And for once, he hadn't said a word. He'd just scooped him up and carried him home, just like she used to when he was young. Letting him drool into the collar of his leather jacket as the salt tracks of long dried tears flaked off across his brother's skin like paper rain.

He'd known better than to ask why Merle limped every other step, his face a mass of deeply set lines and salt tracks. He smelled like old sweat and the tang of Papa's leather belt as his brother hitched him higher in his arms and carried him up the front steps. Both of them sighing in relief when they found the place trashed, but empty.

Believe it or not, this hadn't been a onetime thing. There had been a time where Merle had looked out for him, before all the drugs and that first stint in prison. Merle had never been the perfect older brother. But, at least back then, he'd actually tried.

Hell, the way Merle acted these days, you'd think love was some sort of weakness - a disease or virus that could be cured with pills and creams so long as it was caught early. But he supposed that shouldn't surprise him. Merle had always approached other people like they were contagious, shying away from attachments of any kind until he'd become a stranger to his own family. Or what was left of it anyway.

And after their mother had passed, that was how he'd grown up. Merle had taught him by example that caring about something, or _someone,_ made you weak and that other people were more trouble than they were worth.

Funnily enough, the truth was that Merle had turned out a lot more like their Pa than either of them would like to admit.

And it was no wonder, because, without the influence of their mother and her no-nonsense approach to her husband's vices, the truth was that their father had little love for his sons. It was either that or everything good had been whipped out of him by his _own_ Pa. The jury was still out on that one. Because as young as he'd been when their old man had started taking out his resentment on them, he still remembered the day their Pa had taken his belt to Merle's backside for wrecking the fence with the neighbor's motor bike. The crack of worn leather hitting exposed flesh was pretty hard to mistake. Especially considering what came after.

So when it all comes down to it, he supposes its little wonder he has trouble with the term. After all, a lifetime of experience is bound to have a hand in shaping the person you grow into. Didn't completely excuse it of course, but at the end of the day he figured it certainly hadn't helped.

When he got older, the only love he'd had in his life had been found in either the bottle or some cheap, backwater tart that hadn't wanted to know his last name any more than he'd wanted to know hers. Everything else had either been unattainable or had quickly soured.

He'd tried though. _Lord knows he'd tried. _

Because while he didn't understand the concept, he _did_ understand how it was supposed to work. Or at least how they wanted you to think it worked anyway. For example, he knew how the books and the movies wanted you to see it. He knew every device they tried to spoon-feed you: a few lines of sassy dialogue and a semi-decent villain resulting in a pyrotechnics' display fit to rival Washington on the 4th of fuckin' July. Been there, done that.

It was a god damned mind fuck, that's was what it was.

So yeah, he understood how it was supposed to play out. But other than that he was clueless. And honestly, he figured it was probably better that way. After all, who could blame him? Not when the official definition in the dictionary read more like a mixture between a sappy romance novel and a load of politically correct, pseudo-scientific bullshit that, when push came to shove, didn't actually mean much of anything at all.

Hell, he'd nearly chucked the damn thing right out the window when he'd read it. "A profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person?" – "A person toward whom love is felt?" - "A beloved person?" The definition itself was about as helpful as a hole in the head. And that was just the tip of the freakin' iceberg when it came to that kind of shit.

_No wonder the world had fuckin' ended._

So yeah, he knew how it was defined in the movies, in the TV shows and books, but he'd never understood it. Not really. And up until a year and a half ago he'd been damn well convinced that he probably never would.

'Cause if you asked him lately, he'd have to admit that it wasn't that simple anymore. Sure, he didn't understand the idea of love, or even the concept of forever when it was applied to the term. But considering the events of the past few months, he had the sneaking suspicion that he might actually _want _to.

And worse still, that that suspicion had a name…

* * *

**A/N #1:**Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! There will be one more chapter to this particular story, hope you enjoy.

_**Glossary:**__ "In saecula saeculorum" _is a Latin phrase that translates into_: "to the ages of ages," _or in modern terms_: "forever and ever."_

"_Don't brood. Get on with living and loving. You don't have forever." - _Leo Buscaglia


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This story is meant to fit in some point during the winter when they were going from house to house. Or even at some point in the future, the timing is subjective. It focuses on how Daryl views the concepts of "love" and "forever." – This story originally came out of a snippet of text I wrote for Shipperwolf on tumblr that eventually took on a life of its own.

**Warnings:** Contains minor season three spoilers, as well as references to Daryl and Merle's past. This story will have clear references to the following: child abuse, child neglect, domestic violence, adult language and mature content.

**In Saecula Saeculorum**

_**Chapter 2**_

He was half convinced that this whole mess was just the universe's way of getting even. Maybe even mocking him, he hadn't quite figured out which. Finally getting it's due for all the close calls and smack talk during his long history of tempting fate. It was a lot like death coming to collect or the IRS sniffing through old tax claims. And well, you get the idea.

Hell, it wasn't like he could say he was surprised. After all, between him and Merle he figured they'd probably given Fate herself a god-damned _complex_.

It fuckin' figured. It took the end of the world for her to finally get even. Ain't that just like a dame? He wasn't sure if he should be proud or worried about how far she was willing to go to even the score. Christ, the apocalypse? Even to him that was a bit over the top.

The only reason it was on his mind at all was that he'd overheard Beth and Maggie the night before. He'd been sitting out on the front railing of the latest hole they'd found to spend the night. It was a deserted two story heap that had little attraction save for the fact that it was made of brick, had few windows and was relatively secluded from the houses on the rest of the street.

At first he'd only been half listening as the petite blond managed to talk herself in circles trying to ask Maggie where she figured her and Glenn were going. That was when he'd _really _started paying attention. Hell, he'd nearly choked on his mouthful of creamed corn trying not to laugh.

But not for all the reasons you might think either. For example, the conversation itself had been so incredibly _normal_ that he'd nearly done a double take. And for a moment it was almost like this whole end of the world thing had never happened and he was listening to two girls talking smack about boys and clothes and shit. Just the regular brand of teenage girl chit chat, yammering on like nothing in the world had changed.

Apparently there were some things that were simply destined to stay the same, end of the world or not.

Some things were timeless, he figured. Things like guys going moon-eyed over pretty girls and women having wardrobes the size of Merle's rap sheet. It'd been like that since the dawn of bloody time, so as long as humanity was still alive and kickin', that would never change.

Either way, one thing was clear. If Glenn wasn't careful, he was gonna end up with his very own feisty little ball and chain. Not that there was anything wrong with Maggie, o'course, but even a blind man could tell that the farmer's daughter was a firebrand in her own right. For fucks sake, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure that one out. Not when their first fight had resulted in Hershel bunking with Glenn and Maggie sleeping next to Beth for close to a week before they made nice. The whole situation had been awkward in a way that even Glenn still refused to speak of to this day. God only knows what bunking next to his girl's old man had done to his nerves.

Either way, the point was that Maggie would eat Glenn alive if she was given half the chance. She was the stereotypical farmer's daughter in every respect. She was strong, capable and a force to be reckoned with. Not exactly his type mind you, but sure, he could see the allure.

Marriage? _Jesus._ Korea wasn't going to know what hit him.

That being said, he'd found a ring once. He'd found it in the breast pocket of a jacket that had been hanging from a chair in an abandoned bar. Safe and sound in a small, velvet lined box tucked beside two tickets to the Braves and a roll of moldy looking breath mints.

The tickets were dated for the weekend following that of the first news reports about the infection. It was a damn shame too, they were _killer _seats.

The ring itself was old, nothing fancy, but pretty enough in its own right. It wasn't like he was an expert on it or nothin', but as far as he could tell it _looked_ expensive - old, but expensive. And it'd caught his eye regardless. For example, the worn gold band spoke of decades of use, but the set of its stone and the brightness of the sapphire that crowned it looked far too new to be some old antique. It was almost as if the dude had given his grandma's old piece a shine job and was banking on the new rock and his winning personality to get the job done.

Honestly, the whole thing only made him wonder about the guy that had owned it. It made him ask questions like, why had the stupid bastard had been holed up in that bar in the first place? Had he just been stopping in for a quick pick-me-up before the big date? Had he been there for a shot of liquid courage before he popped the question? Or had she turned him down and he'd been busy drinking off the down payment on that little fixer upper house that had been on the market for half of forever?

Because, either way you wanted to look at it, it certainly hadn't been forever for _him_. Hell, even if she'd said yes, forever had probably lasted right up until the moment when that lady from the CDC had walked onto the podium at the White House. Finally going on record about the new super virus that was spreading across the country like wildfire, spouting out a lot of fancy words about quarantine controls and safety zones while half the continent whipped itself up into one giant clusterfuck of a panic. The streets hadn't just been unfit to be on, they'd been downright _impassable_. And that was just the beginning.

Needless to say, it had all pretty much gone downhill from there.

But all that aside, he'd still taken it with him when they'd moved on. Making trails in the dust and shattered glass that littered the counter as he'd left the outline of his palm in the muted grey. Idly letting himself wonder what 'forever' would look like this side of the apocalypse as T-dog had called the all clear and Glenn and Maggie let the others in through the side door. Using the rare break as a chance to scavenge supplies and catch a few hours of shut eye as Rick and Carl kept their eyes on the street outside.

He supposed it made him a hypocrite when it all came down to it. But hey, life was a lot easier when you just didn't give a shit. When you decided that you didn't care what people thought about you. Or when you tried to convince the world that you _weren't _wounded, that you _weren't_ damaged goods and that you actually_ liked_ the person you'd let life shape you into.

Either way, the point was that this was the type of ring that had a history. Something you could hold in your hands and actually_ feel_ as the gold gradually loses its metallic chill. Turning the moment surreal and strangely dated as time slows, and suddenly you find yourself back there. Steeped in the weight of the years it has seen - in all the things it has stood for and everything in between.

It was weathered and dull around the edges. Worn smooth by decades of use. But at the end of the day he found he liked it even more for it. Not just for what it stood for, but for what it _reminded_ him of, something imperfect, but still brimming with potential. After all, just because something is a bit rough around the edges don't mean it's right to toss it aside. Hell, even broken things have value.

He kept it in his pack, folded neatly inside one of the only pairs of clean socks he owned. Why? Honestly, he didn't know. Near as he could tell he was waiting on something, but waiting for what? Well, that was the million dollar question. He figured that by the time he _did_ he'd be ready, ready for…_whatever_ it was.

At the end of the day, it didn't matter. None of it did really. Not the ring or the person it'd been meant for. And certainly not him and his hoity-toity thoughts on the matter either. The world, or at least their part in it, was done. Humanity had been handed the god-damned pink slip and all that was left to do now was to try to make the best of the time they'd been given. No matter how you spun it, it all added up to the same fucked up conclusion.

Only that was the whole point wasn't it? In a way, today _was_ the _new _forever.

Because like he'd said before, he wasn't exactly sure why he kept it, but when he looked at Carol's hands - all small, lined and delicate; he certainly had half an idea.

After all, if there was anything he wished was forever in this world, it was _her_.

* * *

**A/N #1:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Thank you so much for all your support during the course of this little story, every review was a delight to receive! Hope you enjoyed!

_"I think maybe forever is what you make of it. Tomorrow may be the end of your forever. I think we should be more careful how we use it_." - Unknown


End file.
